My Journey From Homophobia

I grew up in a small town in North Georgia, about a half hour from the college town we live outside of now. The town is filled with good people. Good people who support the high school football team even though they have a terrible record. People who come out for the annual BBQ festival, who talk to you in the grocery store, and make you a casserole if you have surgery. People who give you a ride home from ball practice and check on you if you haven’t been to church in awhile. It’s the kind of place where if you cuss at the gas station your mama’ll know about it before you get home. 

In this context I got some overt and many subtle messages that homosexuality was immoral and   disgusting and that the gays were choosing to live in sin. My family was indifferent. We never talked about it. We did accidentally go to Disneyworld during Gay Pride week when I was in high school, but that was more about scheduling than supporting. It was the late 90s and homosexuality wasn’t on the news that I know of, with the exception of don’t ask don’t tell references now and then. I’d never met a gay person. To me, they were a distant group of sexual deviants that I had nothing in common with. I feared what I did not know.

Armed with this conviction and a holier-than-thou attitude, I didn’t question the information that I had. It feels good to be the side that is right with the Lord, after all. I said things at school that were not tolerant, that were not supportive, that would have been hurtful to anyone who was gay. I backed it up with things I’d heard the Bible said, but I hadn’t taken the time to investigate. I was the worst kind of Christian. I was too naive to know that many, many of my friends would later come out, and my words were likely contributing to a culture of intolerance and reinforcing a fear that they wouldn’t be accepted.

I graduated from that small town and moved a half hour and a half a world away. I’d still never met a gay person (or didn’t know I had) but as often happens, college changed me. There was a flaming gay guy in one of my classes first semester. He was beautiful and he rocked baby blue capri pants with confidence. He was funny, he was beautiful, he was smart, and he was nice. He  was complex and interesting, and did I mention beautiful? There didn’t seem to be anything vile about him. He didn’t even seem to be ashamed that he was gay! I was mesmerized. 

What my home town offered in kindness and community it lacked in diversity. Moving away offered me the chance at exposure to people who were different economically, socially, politically and sexually.  A social work major, I took classes in women’s studies, social work, and psychology. I explored issues of social justice, cycles of poverty, cultural competencies, and mental health. My academic life and my social life were challenging me, and I started questioning many of the things I believed in, and why I believed them. Ah, the college experience. 

I was still a Christian, but I questioned how God could hate entire groups of people. I met people who were different than me, and I wondered if they were really going to hell just because they didn’t grow up the way I did. How did grace and love fit in? I didn’t like that interpretation of God’s judgment, and I wondered if there were other things that I’d picked up along the way that could be interpreted differently too.

Then one of our high school friends came out to us sitting in a booth at the Applebee’s. It changed nothing, and it changed everything. He’d long been teased and denied being gay, so we weren’t surprised he was gay.  I guess I was surprised that he admitted it. I stammered through what I hope was some show of support, because I loved him and this revelation didn’t change that. He was still loving and compassionate and kind and funny and smart, and I didn’t want to lose him as a friend. In hindsight I think it took a lot of courage to come out to me, after I’d been judgmental and closed minded. I’m ashamed to think that someone would ever question if I would accept them. 

As time passed I became more tolerant, and my tolerance grew into acceptance and then advocacy. I met Christians who believe that Jesus loves us all and made us who we are. I met Christian pastors who preach acceptance and inclusion, that we’re all in it together and aren’t called to judge. I embraced that kind of Christianity, and though I'm still not sure about everything I believe, I felt better about those Christian ideals than the judgment I was spouting before. 

I don’t mean to say that I took my judgement from the gays and put it onto Christians who don’t agree with me, that wouldn’t be any better. I saw an article recently called An Explanation of Why Christians Don’t Accept Gay Marriage. I don’t mind when people disagree with me (hello, I’ve been on both ends of this issue!) but I didn’t like the article’s assumption that all Christians have to feel the same way on all issues. There are a hundred kinds of Christians, from the kind who bomb abortion clinics to those who only go to church on Easter, and 98 kinds in between. It feels freeing to be able to interpret things differently and still celebrate the things we interpret similarly. 

A dozen of my high school friends have come out, and I hope that I showed some level of support along the way. Some of our very best friends are gay, and they asked me to give a toast at their wedding. I was honored to, and took that responsibility seriously. They are now unofficial gay uncles (guncles) to our boys, and I’m so glad my boys have role models for healthy relationships of all kinds. I wouldn’t trade that for anything. 

I was outspoken and bold when I spoke out against homosexuality. And I was wrong. And I am sorry. And now I am outspoken and bold for equality and love and acceptance. May no one ever wonder again if I will be accepting of them.

I texted one of my best childhood friends after the SCOTUS decision on gay marriage to tell her congratulations that our country considers her an equal. I told her that I shutter to think about things I said in high school that weren’t supportive, and that I’m sad and sorry for those things. It’s something I hoped she knew, but I’d never said. 

She wrote back with grace, saying “so much of who we are in life now is defined by experiences we’ve had and although (our town) was awesome in many ways, lots of us had yet to experience life and we hadn’t had the opportunity to become the people we are today. At least you can say you’ve grown…some can’t. I know I have!” And then she encouraged me to write about it. 

And that, that, is what grace and love are about. Showing love and mercy to the one who persecuted you. Reserving judgment for the one who judged you. Getting love and forgiveness when you deserve none. The irony is not lost on me. 



"Let all that you do be done in love." 1 Corinthians 16:14

Seven Under Seven

This week marked my 16th year going to the beach with The Husband's family. You may remember last year's post, when we had Six Under Six. Thanks to us, we now have seven under seven. Don't worry, we aren't planning to make it eight under eight next year.

Seven children. Eight adults. Two floors. Six beds. One pull out couch. One tent. Four cars. One trip to Urgent Care. Forty-seven trips to Publix. 127 wardrobe changes. 612 meltdowns.

The first afternoon we got there we assessed the place and started bringing our things in. We arrived in waves, and the kids were more excited with each new arrival. They ran, they bounced, they air "fighted" with fists and kicks and spins. The Boy kept screaming "I have the power!" in his best He-Man voice. They jumped on beds, and we yelled "don't jump on the bed!" and "use an inside voice!" We would isolate one to make eye contact and ask them to calm down, then they'd be gone, lost in a cloud of dri-fit fabric and warrior calls. Then more cousins would arrive and it would start over, and they were all hopped up on sea air, freedom, and gas station snacks. It was like a continual ambush of tiny dwarf ninjas. 

Full contact movie watching. They are still like this for approximately 28 seconds. 

Here BeYoYo has on his cousin's Halloween Hello Kitty shirt, and is wielding two swords. 

Day two BeYoYo came down with a virus. His temp hovered at 100, and if he could talk he'd have said he felt pretty crummy. It lasted for about 24 hours, and he was back to himself. The next day was The Boy's turn. You know you're a real parent when someone says they're going to throw up, and you instinctively offer your hands just in time for them to fill them with vomit. By the end of the week, 5 of the kids and The Husband had had a fever, with some variation of chills, vomiting, sleepiness, and general crabbiness. The Husband's temp reached 102.5, and I was afraid for a minute I was going to have to drive us home without his help. And also for his safety, of course.

Sorry we brought a virus, guys. 

With four families on different schedules, and three sets of small kids all staying up later than usual, eating more junk than usual, and having to get along with more people than usual, there were bound to be some meltdowns. Like this one, which I don't remember the reason for, but I remember that as she was crying, another child snuck up on her and added a cape:

Classics like "Can I have some Cap'n Crunch? I want Cap'n Crunch. PLEASE please please please can I have some Cap'n Crunch?" Child receives Cap'n Crunch and screams "Noooo! Not THAT!" and falls in the floor like she's been slapped in the face.  A variation on that theme is the parent saying "Come eat your cereal. Come eat your cereal. You need to come eat your cereal before it gets soggy." and child shows up, takes one look at the cereal and screams "I can't eat that! It's WET!" These tiny people look at us, pleading for food and better treatment like they are on adopt-an-orphan infomercials instead of on family vacation. 

There were also the old standbys like I don't want to go to bed, I'm hungry but I don't want to eat, she bothered my thing, he's looking at me, it's my turn now, I don't want to go in, I don't want to go out, I have to pee, I don't have to pee, and I don't want to be doing whatever everyone has decided to do. There was also some incoherent shrieking, brought to you by these two, who didn't want to be left out:

We took the oldest six out to eat once, and grandparents kept BeYoYo. It was loud. And hot. And past their dinner time. And at the last minute the restaurant fryer quit working, so no chicken tenders and fries. Children, you'll have to make do with hamburgers or sandwiches or fish. No? Okay, then, just eat raisins and goldfish for dinner. There was a lot of grouchiness, but mostly just from me. 

Don't think we took them all on our own. The other adults just didn't make it in the pic.

The dwarf ninjas enjoyed the pool and the beach, the pirate museum, the old fort, and the light house. Mostly they just enjoyed playing with each other. 

The Boy said the pool was his most favorist thing of all. The Husband said we could have just stayed at home and gone to the Ho Jo and saved a lot of money. 

We had The Boy's birthday party at the beach and celebrated with his twin cousin. The Husband had made me promise not to make a cake, and I obliged. But.....the bakery I had been emailing with quit responding. So we agreed to pick up an ice cream cake and I'd make fondant decorations for the top. I know, I know, I can't leave well enough alone. She wanted mermaid, he wanted Superman. 

Here they are, happy at their party. 

We're four! We're best buddies! What could go wrong?

And here she is, blowing out the candle on cue, but before he was ready. 

And here he is, starting to pout. Check out her face. 

Afterward there were mutilated sugary body parts everywhere. It looked like a cartoon shark attack. 

Even though he won't be one for three more weeks, we celebrated BeYoYo's birthday at the party too. When in Rome. 

Turns out he loves cake. He gets that from me. 

Family pictures were epic. Legendary. The things family stories are made of. 

We wanted one decent picture of all the grandkids with the grandparents. This is one of the better ones we got. From left to right we have itchy, not sure what to do, he's touching me, starving, exhausted, confused, and I love my penis. You'll noticed even the grandparents aren't smiling. The rest of us are all behind the camera, threatening and promising and pleading for just ONE picture. I don't think Bebe is going to want to frame this, folks. 

And we got some shots of just us too. 

I accused the Husband of squinting here, and he said "that's just my natural grimace"

He accused me of reigning over everyone here. I told him that was just my natural position. 

This one sums up our week the best: The Husband is rubbing his eye, BeYoYo is like "hey guys!", The Boy is sticking his tongue out, and I'm wasting my time trying to wrangle them all. 

My brothers in law did manage to get this shot of the oldest six. BeYoYo was asleep, and I'm not complaining. Is anyone good with photoshop? 

We made it home on Saturday with a liberal mix of screen time and junk food. Prissy was so excited to see us that she ran in circles and threw up in the floor.  BeYoYo laughed from his car seat saying "More! More!" Then he blew out a diaper, and another. I went to put the cloth diaper in the washer, and a mouse darted out from behind the washer to the garage. We'd been home 15 minutes. Welcome home. If you need me I'll be back at the beach. Or the Ho Jo. 

Vintage transportation nursery

BeYoYo is 11 months today! So I figured it's time I show you his room. We went with a vintage transportation theme, mostly because I saw a metal pushcar at an auction when I was pregnant and felt like we *needed* it. Don't blame me, blame the hormones.

The crib was free, given to us by an old neighbor. I found the Pottery Barn train bumper pads at a consignment sale for next to nothing. The art is from etsy, and I made the mobile myself. 

The dresser was my grandparents' and the baby gown was my granddad's when he was a baby in 1925.

My mom was particularly proud of the mobile, considering how I'm always proving I can't sew. Also, she helped a lot.

Big brother made this train as his contribution before BeYoYo was born. Actually, my mom helped with that too. 

Airplane shelf is from HomeGoods, natch. 

And the blue dresser is an antique store find. We had the green rocker/recliner from The Boy's nursery. 

The dormer window is the perfect size for a changing table (from goodwill!) and the metal car that inspired it all. I don't actually let anyone play with it because it's metal and sharp and turns out, super impractical.

Car hooks were on clearance from Hobby Lobby, and hold one of the john johns his daddy hates but I put him in for church anyway. He's got the rest of his life to wear t-shirts. Carpe diem.

I just scored this awesome car rug made from fabric scraps for $5. Woot!

And my favorite thing of all is the quilt my mom made. The train is made from fabric from some of our grandparents' clothes. The whole thing was a surprise to me and made me do a long pregnant ugly cry. Sometimes when I rock BeYoYo I wrap us up in the quilt and get right sentimental. 

And what does BeYoYo think of his room? 

He's not particularly impressed. 

An Almost 4 Year Old

The Boy will be four tomorrow.

Four.

In human years.

He is inquisitive and energetic and exhausting. He is reflective and funny and smart. He is outgoing and determined and friendly and independent.

When he gets nervous he gets silly, and when he gets silly he uses made up words. He brings home leaves in his pockets and says they are special because his friend gave them to him. He is a great big brother and every night he thanks God for BeYoYo and no one else. He's obsessive about them wearing matching clothes and is disappointed when they can't.

He calls tank tops "tick tocks", and he knows the names of all the ninja turtles: Michaewangewo, Weonardo, Donatewwo, and Wafeal. He says he weawwy, weawwy woves us, and that he loves his brother the most. That's okay with me.

He makes increasingly more valid arguments about why he should or shouldn't do things. He pees outside. He appreciates a good meal. He's good at soccer, but sometimes he runs into the refrigerator at home. He eats at least two breakfasts every day.

His favorite movie is "Hoy Story." He still lets me rock him before bed while we read a book.  He asks big, big questions about the world and God and life, some that I don't know the answer to.

His favorite toys are Super Heroes and he loves to wear a cape. He plays dress up and makes up wild imaginary scenarios with many, many sound effects. He gets in trouble for playing too rough at school. He watches Curious George, The Wot Wots, and bizarre shows he's found on Netflix. He's mastered the ipad. He knows how to take a selfie. His favorite songs are Queen's Flash and We Will Rock You.

Tonight I continued our tradition of asking him some questions on his birthday, like I did last year. Here is what he said.

                                                                How old are you? 

"Free and a half, almost four"

What’s your favorite thing to do? 

"say 'SORRY' (in a monster voice) with Henry"

What do you want to be when you grow up? 

"I don't want to grow up"

What’s your favorite food? 

"butter noodles"

What’s something you’re good at? 

"riding my scooter"

What makes you laugh? 

"tickle my foot"

What’s something scary?

"I'm gonna die"

Who’s your best friend? 

"Henry. And Nate."

What do you like to do with your family? 

"pway with them"

Where do you like to go? 

"I wove to spend the night at the cabin."

What do you like to learn about? 

"how do people die"

This morning we were talking about his birthday and he said "I'm going to be four when I wake up tomorrow. Do you think I'll be too heavy for my wittle bed?"

He has challenged me in ways I could never have imagined, and expanded my heart in ways I didn't know possible. I'm so thankful for the energy and the joy and the life lessons he's brought in the last four years.

Black and white

I am heavy with worry on this one. I am sad for the families of the victims of the Charleston church shooting. I am sad for the black mamas across the nation who worry every time their sons leave home that they will not return. I am sad for those who are not sad about this, and I'm afraid that means we are becoming tolerant and complacent about racism. I'm afraid it's easy to deny that it exists because it is 2015 and it's been more than 50 years since MLK had a dream.

As my sons grow up, I will worry if there are pesticides in their foods, and if they do their homework and drive carefully. I won't worry about their safety if they wear hoodies into gas stations, or get stopped at traffic stops or if someone they don't know comes to their prayer meetings.  I worry that I don't remember often enough that this is a reality for many people. I'm ashamed I forget the luxury I was dealt when, through no choice of my own, I was born with ivory skin.

The Husband and I had a long talk about racism today. Though he doesn't like what happened in Charleston or across the country lately, he doesn't understand why it would make me cry, or why I feel a heaviness about it for my own children. I asked him "how do we raise children who not only don't hurt others because of the color of their skin, but also don't tolerate it, and work to stop it from happening?" His response was "maybe you model that." Yes, yes, yes.  But have we been modeling that? We don't hurt others, but do we work to stop it from happening? Maybe tolerance is not enough.

He asked me why this made me cry more than another killing would. Why, say, didn't I cry about the Boston marathon bombing? Valid question. I had to think before I responded "I'm sad about any time anyone is killed because of religion or race, but I think this feels different because this was committed by someone from our race, and I feel a responsibility to do better for our race." Maybe it's easier to face hatred coming from an Islamist extremist than someone who could be my child.

We talk about race at our house. The Boy knows that people have different color skin, and that the rule of our family is that we love people no matter how they look. But he doesn't know that some families don't have that rule. And if we think that modeling intolerance of injustice is the place to start, maybe that means my kids need to know that injustice exists.

So today I sat down with The Boy and told him that in Charleston, in the city that our friend lives, someone hurt some other people just because they had brown skin. I told him that I knew he knew that our family loves people no matter what color skin they have, but that some families don't have that rule. I told him it is not okay to hurt others or say unkind things to them because of the color of their skin, and that he and his brother should always work to protect others if someone is hurting them. I told him through tears that this made me very, very sad, and that the people that were hurt were good people. He asked if the one who hurt them would go to jail, and I told him yes, because what he did is not okay. We talked about the importance of not just not hurting others, but standing up for them and helping them.

I don't pretend that telling my child about racism is the key to stopping it. I don't pretend that blogging about my feelings helps any of the victim's families find peace. I wish I knew an answer. I wish I knew of something that I could do to change the pattern, to stop the hate. But I do think that talking about it, and claiming intolerance for it is the first small step I can take. And I hope to model for my children to love and protect our friends of all races, because tolerance isn't enough. May no one wonder where I stand.

And as much as I worry, I am grateful to know that so many of you out there stand with me in solidarity, wanting to do something, wanting to stop the hate and the violence. I pray we come up with something more than words. Until then, here are some words from Dr. King's I Have A Dream speech that resonate again today: 

"We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children."